


faithless violence

by kousanoes



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Character Death, Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, background/mentioned hisoka/illumi zoldyck, its more like a future fic i guess? a what-if scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18503695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kousanoes/pseuds/kousanoes
Summary: The letter comes two days after you hit land. Your right knee aches with ghost pain, cause long-forgotten. You ignore it, as one does, and tear open the cream-coloured envelope. Scraps of paper float to the ground, but you pay them no mind.Sorry, the letter reads.Thought I should tell you Mom and Dad are dead.It's not signed. You don’t need to guess to know who wrote it.(Or: quiet moments in the life of one Kalluto Zoldyck.)





	faithless violence

**Author's Note:**

> [fandom tumblr](https://kousanoes.tumblr.com) / [writeblr](https://quartzses.tumblr.com)
> 
> shoutout to a [friend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetus_Fabricor/pseuds/Laetus_Fabricor) for beta-ing for me!

You close your eyes and feel the breeze ruffling through your hair. The thrill of being alive—staying alive—far outweighs the pressing consequences of the battleship bloodbath. 

 

Despite the reminder of both your found-family and real-family’s death, you find yourself missing home. The feel of dirt beneath your shoes, the wet touch of the sea air, the life that fills the sky are all things you longed for. 

 

Your brother comes to stand at your side. He looks down, staring through your skin into your soul. It’s clear he wants to know the contents of the letter—it holds the Zoldyck stamp, but he did not receive a complimentary letter—but you have had enough of him. You have had enough of him encroaching on your Troupe as-is. Just as he found a home in endless work nights and the clown of a Hunter, you found a home in a bedraggled gang of nameless thieves.

 

 _Like find like,_ your father had once said. He has always opposed your vague interest in the unknown, the beyond. With a hand on your head and a beckon for Kikyo at his waist, he would say, “Family sticks together. This Phantom Troupe of yours is a passing fling you should not entertain; they carry more risk than they are worth.” 

 

 _Family sticks together_ are the words that ring true in your mind.

 

Who is considered family, and by whose standards? The heir’s—Killua’s—or the family leaders with the majority rule? Do the opinions of the left-behind matter?

 

These are thoughts for another day. Today, you must rejoice your survival with your eldest brother. He, too, has survived. It is a feat not many accomplish; making a round trip in the Dark Continent is an award you have earned. It is an award your mother would have praised you for and one your father—

 

It is an award your father would have praised you for, too, you think. 

 

“Kalluto,” Illumi says. You look up at him and smile. The height difference is apparent, as are the years between you. 

 

“Shall we go home?” you inquire. 

 

“Let’s.” 

 

 

 

The spider tattoo sits at the small of your back, an ever-present reminder of your upbringing, your failures, and your found-family. Its ink blood, you resist the urge to scratch the mark away. You paid for your skill in favours and an irredeemable past.

 

Illumi does not have a tattoo. You do not ask ‘why not’ or ‘how come’. Sometimes your mind wonders, late at night, whether that missing permanence was the doing of his lover or his own manipulative needles. You have heard enough stories about the old Troupe member.

 

He stands before you, hair swaying in the wind. He reminds you of your mother: Kikyo, a woman with dignity and balanced judgement. You remember the fit she threw when she first learned of Illumi growing out his hair, though she grew to appreciate Illumi’s obeisance enough to overlook his missing masculinity. 

 

She never tried to enforce the same on you. She liked the idea of having a little baby mimicking her. It made her feel powerful. She thought you were man enough to be safe but still young enough to be her.

 

“Our family is dead.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. 

 

Illumi turns. His expression is cold—emotionless, fitting for an assassin, a soldier of Death himself. It takes a second longer for him to answer. It’s the first time you have seen him speechless. 

 

“No,” he says, at last. “Our family is not dead. The Zoldycks still live; it is only our parents who have died.” 

 

“And our grandfather, and the butlers, and—” 

 

“Collect yourself, Kalluto.” His voice is steel as he condemns your emotion. It is a typical answer. “We are the Zoldycks now. We have trained our entire lives for this; we will not falter now.” 

 

 

 

 

 

The two of you return to the mansion. Upon re-entering mountain grounds, Illumi spares a glance for your arms. “Open the gate for us,” he says. He sounds tired in a way you didn’t know was possible. “Show me your strength.” 

 

You bite back a response; have you not had enough of proving your worth to him? Had you not spent the last three years showing him your prowess? Did you not join the Phantom Troupe for this? Did seeing you fight for them mean nothing?

 

But he is your elder, and at the moment, your teacher. He is real-family, so you obey, moving toward the nearest weighted door. The employees are missing. 

 

“Not that one,” he says, pointing. “The heaviest.” 

 

In silence, you obey. The door opens. Instinctively, by habit, you look to him for approval. He doesn’t nod like he usually does, but you dismiss it as a temporary passing. Your parents died, after all; it must be his way of mourning.

 

 

 

Milluki is waiting at home. How he survived, you don’t know. You don’t press him for details either; as the youngest, you don’t have that sort of power. You tell him so, when he asks. 

 

He snorts, and it sounds so scarily reminiscent of your father’s brusque dismissals. Instead of flinching, you opt to stare around the house. It’s trashed, decorations littering the ground surrounded by cracked walls.

 

“What’s stopping you?” Milluki says. His voice is older. Emptier. What is happening to your family? It is falling apart at the seams. “You’re the youngest, so what? Who’s gonna hurt you now?” 

 

He doesn’t seem to recognize that he himself has hurt you, but that’s fine. He, too, was always under your parents’ strings. Now that they’re gone, there’s no one manipulating the puppets. Your real-family is at a loss. 

 

To be honest, you are amazed to see the building still standing, with no one defending the mansion but Milluki in name. 

 

Illumi cuts in, “Where are the butlers?” 

 

Milluki’s eyes snap over to him. “I let ‘em go,” he says. It’s as if there is a predator—a Zoldyck dragon, maybe—behind Illumi, waiting for the right moment to strike and kill. He is still scared of Illumi, you think. You cannot blame him; you are scared of Illumi, too. You are also scared of Milluki, but you are sure neither of them are scared of you.

 

Illumi says nothing. His expression is enough to pressure Milluki into giving up. 

 

“Gotoh is dead,” Milluki complies, “but you knew that. The others were killed, too, after you left. Tsubone went first. There weren’t many who lived. Just Canary and Amane.” 

 

“The trainees.” There is hidden anger in Illumi’s voice. You startle, unable to hide your surprise. You brace yourself in response, but no one is looking. “Is there a reason why they were the only ones left? You and two trainees, all unfit to manage the family? We are a _business,_ Milluki—”

 

Milluki clenches a fist. “What are you trying to say?” he demands, indignant. What are these family dynamics? If only your parents were here. “If anything, they’re more competent than the rest of the butlers; they’re the ones who died, after all.” 

 

Illumi sighs, closing his eyes. It is condescending at best, and you feel yourself bristle along with Milluki. “Nothing,” he says. When he reopens his eyes, they have the regular blank expression you’re used to. You now understand how Illumi has always been so successful at assassination; his practiced tranquillity is eerie. “Where have they gone?” 

 

“I said they could take a break until I called them back again.” 

 

“Until you called them back?” 

 

“I thought I was the last Zoldyck. You and Kalluto were off gallivanting on an irrelevant continent. Killua’s with Alluka somewhere else, completely unreachable, even by my tech. What else was I supposed to do?” 

 

“So you dropped the family business and chowed down on chips and onion rings?” 

 

Milluki is visibly tense. “I was managing the business requests.” He pauses and mutters, “I was being more responsible than you were, at least.” 

 

“I was protecting Kalluto,” Illumi says. Your head snaps up after hearing your name.

 

“You were what now?” you ask, voice quiet. You meet Illumi’s eyes, who unsurprisingly remains silent. You don’t know why the words hurt as much as they do. “I don’t need protection. I thought you joined to kill your fiancé.” 

 

“You have a fiancé?” Milluki says, incredulous. He looks as though he’s on the verge of laughter. “You? Never thought I’d see the day. Are you trying to take over the business then, with your fiancé? Instead of you accusing me of killing our family—what I've always put above all else—maybe I should be the one accusing you instead.”

 

“It was a marriage engagement in name only. I did it for the family’s benefit.”

 

“I see how it is—”

 

“The family is gone,” you say, surprising even yourself. Your two brothers turn to look at you. Instead of meeting their gaze, you stare forward, towards your broken home. Let them stare. There isn’t much to see, anyway. “The three of us, and Killua, and Alluka, we’re all that’s left.”

 

“Alluka is not a Zoldyck,” Illumi says. Milluki says nothing. Neither do you.

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Illumi says, “We will rebuild this family from the ground up.” He does not speak of last night, so neither do you. “We will not let the world know of these hindrances, you understand me?”

 

“Who died and made you king?” Milluki snorts. It is as if the moment your parents died, he let go of all his restraints and manners. You cannot blame him. This new freedom is intoxicating.

 

Illumi levels a glare at Milluki. “Our parents did.”

 

Milluki does not back down easily. “You were never the heir. Why are you trying to be the heir so bad?”

 

Something flashes in Illumi's eyes. “Do you see the heir around us now? Does our heir even know of their passing?”

 

“Killua was the one who sent me the letter,” you say. Milluki says nothing disputing your claim, so it must be true. “He must know.”

 

“Even better, then. He simply does not care.”

 

“Why should he?” you ask. They both turn to look at you, incredulous. You shut your mouth hard enough to hurt your jaws.

 

“What do you mean, Kalluto?” Illumi asks, tone oddly polite.

 

“It's nothing.”

 

 

 

That night, you dream of wilderness. You're running, more out of breath than you have been in years. You feel lactic acid building in your calves and shortness of breath, how each inhale burns your throat hoarse.

 

You don’t know why you’re running. You run anyways. You run far.

 

 _They're dead,_ you hear in Alluka's voice. It sounds hauntingly similar to the contents of the letter. _They're dead,_ she says, quiet. _They're dead,_ she repeats, louder. _They're dead, and we’re coming for you._

 

There is a man dressed in green with a broken wrist. Grin alight on his face, he turns to meet your eyes. Your vision flashes and you see yourself from above. Your hair is white, and you are taller than you’re used to. A flash, and your perspective rights itself again, but the change is nauseous. You stumble over a root, skid on the ground.

 

 _Let's go,_ the man in green says. _Let's go, K—_

 

 

 

You wake with a pounding head and a parched throat. One hand comes up to blearily clear the drowsiness. It isn’t long before you make yourself feel whole again; that is a habit you rarely have to think about anymore. At this point, you are an amalgamation of patchwork pieces from the baby you once were. 

 

You make your way downstairs to the main kitchen. There is no welcoming, morning breakfast smell. When was the last time you cooked for yourself? Before the Dark Continent, at least. You have grown complacent. Dependent. Your parents would be disappointed.

 

Milluki joins you halfway through. Out of the corner of your eye, you take note of his appearance. He, too, looks tired. “Kalluto,” he says. You turn. He does not finish his sentence. You return to flip over the eggs. The yolk breaks and oozes over the bottom of the pan. You wait. 

 

Eggs finally cooked and in your plate, you turn back to Milluki. “I think Illumi’s still sleeping. Is there anything that needs doing? I am restless.”

 

He stares at you for what feels like an eternity. He says, “I guess. Got a list of unfulfilled requests that I can link you up with, if you want.”

 

You nod. Then, after remembering Illumi's words yesterday, you say, “Preferably before Illumi wakes up.” Milluki does not argue. You don’t think he understands your reasoning, either, but it does not matter. 

 

“When I'm done eating,” he says, “come with me.”

 

 

 

Perhaps out of spite, you do not pick an easy target. Of course, you do not pick a particularly difficult one, either—you are smart enough to know your limits. Milluki does not question your choice, either, which you appreciate.

 

You leave just as quickly as you first came home, disguise in place and flight booked. Just before you enter the blimp, you send a final glance to Milluki, who accompanied you there. “I’ll be back soon. Let me know if anything happens.”

 

“I'm going to call the butlers back at the end of this year.”

 

You tilt your head, a small quirk you picked up from Illumi. “OK. Why?”

 

He shrugs, watching you carefully. His fingers twitch, as if yearning for something, before he shoves them into his pockets.

 

You nod and leave without a second glance.

 

 

 

 

 

The job is easy. Your skills have grown exponentially since your last official assassination. You return within the week. Milluki greets you first. 

 

“It went well, I see,” he says. There is not a scratch on you. You are proud of the fact. 

 

“Yes.” You slip past him to head to your room. He turns, eyes following your every move. Feeling his lingering gaze, you pause on the stairs and face him expectantly. 

 

“Illumi left,” he blurts. 

 

Your mouth shuts with an audible click. “For a job?” It should not be surprising—Illumi was always the type of person to throw himself into his work. Before he joined the Phantom Troupe, you did not see him very often. 

 

“No. I offered him what I offered you after I told him you left, but he didn't say anything. He probably had other plans, not that he would tell us.” Milluki tries to sound nonchalant, but it does not work. You both know this is uncharacteristic behaviour. Illumi never had plans of his own. He did everything under your parents’ watch, as did everyone else. 

 

Freedom is a learning process. 

 

“Maybe,” you say. You don’t try to hide the disbelief from your tone. 

 

Milluki shifts. “Said he was a Hunter. Said that he was a Hunter _and_ an assassin, and that his prey was still alive. You know something ‘bout that?” 

 

“No.”

 

“OK. Thought you should know.” He pauses. “I’m going to watch some TV, so don’t bother me.” 

 

“Wasn’t going to.” 

 

He leaves. You return to your room and begin unpacking. 

 

Your phone buzzes three-quarters of the way through. There is a text message from an unknown number, whom you assume to be Chrollo Lucifer, by process of elimination. He survived. The others did not. There rests one head and one leg. 

 

The text reads, _remember: the body before the head._

 

The image burns into your eyes, and your finger automatically swipes to erase the message. You are surprised to find he texted you at all; despite being the last of the Troupe, you feel as though he only tolerates you. 

 

You replay the message in your mind. Is he in danger? Is that why he texted you? If he were to die, you would be the last Spider. You would be the only one with an authentic tattoo—number four. No longer a soldier of Death, you suppose, but a thief of Death. Death’s thief: barely a teenager, oh, how amusing. 

 

 

 

 

 

Alluka visits two years later. She is fifteen now. Killua is not with her—she does not say why—and Milluki is out of the house. Milluki gone has become a rather common occurrence, or at least, one more often than before your parents were dead. Canary, having received full butler status a year ago, brings Alluka to you. 

 

She is different than the Alluka you knew. She is taller. Brighter. More alive. 

 

“Alluka,” you say, at a loss for words. 

 

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes, though hidden well enough to be unnoticeable to a stranger. You are not a stranger. She is your sister. She is real-family. “Kalluto, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

 

“Why are you here?” One hand curls into a fist at your side, the other reaches into your kimono for your fan. Real-family means nothing in times like these. 

 

Why must you protect yourself against the powerless sibling? Would Killua have taught her the blood and bones of being a Zoldyck? Would it not be too late for her to learn?

 

“I just thought I should visit,” she says, voice quiet and artificially timid. The smile doesn’t leave her face. She looks around and meets Canary’s eyes. “Can we talk in private?” 

 

Canary bows and moves to leave, but you raise her hand to stop her. She obeys. “No,” you say. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what—I don’t know what Killua told you. I don’t know what happened to you.” 

 

“I can tell you,” she says, easily. Too quickly. “Kalluto, it’s been years, but we’re still family, aren’t we? We’re still family, and I never—can we talk alone? Please? It can be here, Kalluto. I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here, but I wanted to—” 

 

You clench your jaws. You go through a mental checklist: how much sleep have you gotten? How much have you eaten? Are your muscles sore? When was the last time you used your _nen,_ has it since replenished? 

 

Even then, you know all these facts mean nothing. When compared against Alluka’s anger—Nanika—everything becomes null. You have heard the tales of the wishes and curses; her indomitable power triumphs all. 

 

Nonetheless, she is your sister. She is real-family, and family ranks above all else. You feel a combination of childish excitement—a chance at seeing the risk every other family member has experienced—and longing for a reunion you will otherwise never get to have. 

 

“OK,” you say, “OK.” 

 

Canary leaves. Alluka sits. You stay standing, watching her. After a minute, she says, “What do you want to know?” 

 

Hundreds of questions rush through your mind: _Did you know Milluki isn’t here? What do you mean you aren’t supposed to be here? How is Killua? What do you know about Illumi, where is he now? What is Nanika, and why was everyone mad at you for it? Why weren’t you trained like the rest of us? Why are you special? Why does Killua love you, and only you?_

 

What leaves your mouth are the words, “Why did you come?” 

 

She laughs. It sounds fake. She folds her fingers together and leans back into the plush cushions. “I wanted to see you again,” she says. It sounds true, but you know Zoldycks are experts at lying. Even without being trained, the last name is hers to own. Your real-family’s existence is built off of deceit and counterfeit trades; it is no stretch to assume she knows the back-alley ways, as well. 

 

“Why? Why me? Why now?” It sounds as though _right now_ is an important time when, really, you mean _why at all?_ It’s not as if you were the one who broke her out of her playground chains. That was Killua. All you did was yearn after a sibling bond unintended for the youngest. Even then, it wasn’t her bond you wanted. 

 

All you did was lose family, over and over again. 

 

“I don’t know,” she says, looking down. Helpless is the last word you would use to describe a Zoldyck, but dare you say it, she looks helpless. It must be a ruse. “I—Kalluto, I want you to know, I don’t blame you for anything. I—Killua does, but I don’t think—I don’t think he’s right. He’s really smart and good, and funny, but right now, I don’t think he’s right. You didn't do anything wrong, Kalluto. I want to be friends! I want to be friends with you like I am with Killua. If that’s OK.” 

 

Inhale. Exhale. Calm your trembling fingers, because Zoldycks don’t tremble. “I don’t understand,” you say. You understand the words that leave her mouth, but you don’t—but it feels like a joke. An elaborate prank. A dream. “I don’t—” 

 

She waits. She waits patiently for you to scramble your scattered mind and piece it back together. She waits for you to glue together the sentence fragments and misunderstood history from misaligned assumptions, impartial all the way through. 

 

Inhale. Exhale. “What—what happened to you? Four years ago? When Killua left us for good? And the Hunter election?” 

 

Does she know about the Hunter election? Does she know about what happened on the Black Whale? On the Dark Continent? She must know your parents are dead, but does she know how? Somehow, you don’t want to ask. Somehow, you don’t want to know the answer at all. 

 

Inhale. Exhale. She watches you for a moment more. Then, she stands and pleads, “Kalluto, come with me.” Her clothing bunches under her fingers. “You don’t have to do what—what _they_ taught you to do, anymore. They’re gone, Kalluto, you don’t have to kill anymore. Killua isn’t. We—the three of us—can be a family again.” 

 

“And Milluki?” you ask. For a second, she makes a face of disgust, before hastily smoothing over her expression. You saw it, though. Maybe Illumi was right; maybe she isn’t family. Without a second thought, you continue to press, “What about Illumi?” 

 

Something in her snaps. “What about Illumi?” she demands in a biting tone you haven’t heard from her before. “What about him? If you—if you think _he’s_ family, then _we_ aren’t family. He—” 

 

“What did he do to you?” slips out your throat, gargled and distraught. 

 

Inhale. Exhale. Alluka freezes. She watches you, caution before regret. “You don’t know?” 

 

A moment passes. You bob your head in silent admission. She sighs. “You’d be a better Hunter than an assassin.” 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s guilt. Whatever it is, when December rolls around, you find yourself applying for the Hunter exam. 

 

Milluki finds out, as he does. His first response is not a derogatory comment about following in Killua’s footsteps like you expected. Instead, he asks, “Why are you doing this?” 

 

You look at him and shrug. “Need a change of pace.”

 

 

 

The exam is a free-falling, exhilarating release from reality. You can see the appeal why thousands of applicants lure themselves into fateful death, why Killua left the cold confines of family. 

 

The first stage is easy. It’s designed to weed out the masses, people who do not know their own limits. You do. 

 

Halfway through the exercise—something that can be reduced to a simple stamina-based reaction game that you could do in your sleep—a stout man in blue makes his way towards you. 

 

“I’m Tonpa,” he says. “Are you new? I’ve been doing this for years; I can recognize newbies. Would you like a drink? I can show you around, if you’d like. You’re pretty young, aren’t you? What are you doing here?” 

 

You give him a glare that sends him reeling. “No,” you say, “I’m just fine.” 

 

Antsy and impatient, it does not take long for you to pass the first stage. You manage your way through the second and third stages just fine. It’s a little different than what you’re used to—there’s no quick solution, no sneak-in-sneak-out plan. 

 

The fourth stage poses a little bit more trouble. It’s a group activity where you are paired with Tonpa and another newbie. Both are much less skilled. Temptation lures you to kill them—have it be done with and over already—but something holds you back. It is not the examination rules stopping you. 

 

 _You’d be a better Hunter than an assassin,_ Alluka had said. 

 

It is disbelief and spite, you think. That is why you are here. 

 

Your two group members bicker in front of you. Your back rests against the brick wall as you watch your fellow trapped examinees. About twenty people flit around the circular area, with another supposed twenty elsewhere. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Theta—the Fourth Prince’s guard from the Black Whale—but you make no move to talk. 

 

Your other group member whirls around and snaps, “Hey! Aren’t you going to join in? You’ve been standing at the edge this entire time. You’re part of the group too! If you don’t do something, we’re all going to fail, and it’ll be your fault!” 

 

You stare back at him. Slowly, you push yourself off the wall. “No,” you say, slowly. Menace flashes in your head—Illumi’s _nen?_ odd, though he did promise to always be with you—and you grip your forehead in response. “No. No, I’m not—” 

 

Your fingers itch. Is this how Killua felt? Unable to fight, to kill? It’s not as if you want to kill, but the nature is ingrained in you. It’s not like you have a choice. 

 

“I’m going,” you say, finally. “I’m leaving.” 

 

You feel sick to your stomach. Any moment now, you will hurl. Purple manipulation rears its ugly head. An examiner stands in your way. 

 

“You can’t leave,” he says, foolish. You kill him without a second’s thought, knife hands embedded in his throat. What does that say about you? Despite it all, your fingers itch for more. More. It has been too long, your hunger cries. Bile climbs its way up your throat. You force it down. Quell your anger. You have no choice. 

 

 

 

It rains on your way back. Each droplet of water sinks deep into your joints. Weary and hungry, you trudge back home. You pay no attention to your surroundings. Your knee flares in silent protest, a Dark Continent injury you have not yet fully recovered from. 

 

You pull your kimono tighter around your body and duck into a smaller street in hopes of avoiding the cars’ splash. As you walk, you tally the effects of the Hunter exam: a little physically tired but not enough to matter, mostly uninjured. 

 

It just means you are weak; did Illumi feel like this? Did Killua? Illumi passed on his first try, Killua the same for all that it mattered. Here you are: a failure. 

 

Alluka was wrong.  

 

 _Ha,_ you think in delighted glee, _Alluka was wrong._ It doesn’t make you feel any better, though, not really. 

 

The screech of tires startles you out of your thoughts. You jump, pressing your back against the brick wall as you hope to calm your thumping heart. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. Even if it was something, you could take it. You are a Zoldyck; you are strong. 

 

A figure drops down in front of you. Instinctively, you stumble back, slippers catching on the uneven path. He has pink hair. 

 

It’s Hisoka. 

 

 

 

 

 

He lifts his head, meeting your eyes. The star and teardrop on his face have not faded. There is a smattering of blood across one cheek. _Where has he been?_ you think, and then, _Does he know where Illumi is?_

 

“Kalluto,” he croons, sounding out every syllable. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

 

Your heart jumps to your throat. One hand fastens around the hilt of your paper fan, though you know you are still no match for him. That was proven on the Black Whale. 

 

Out of all of the Troupe’s enemies, he has killed the most members. Even the chain user—whose life is dedicated to vengeance—comes second to him. 

 

“Why are you here?” you ask, unable to keep the shaking out of your voice. It’s unbefitting of a Zoldyck. You should know better. 

 

“I told you, didn't I? That I would be coming back for you, Kalluto.” The way he says your name—a sickly sweet version of your mother’s honeyed praise—simultaneously makes you want to cry and hurl. You want to smash glass against a brick wall. You cannot do that, however, so you stay silent instead. “You’re a Spider, aren’t you? And I’m going to kill the Spiders.” He spends a moment ticking off his fingers, as if counting invisible threads, before looking up back at you. “How many of the Troupe is left, hmm?” 

 

“Shouldn’t you know?” 

 

He laughs, bright and honest. There is a glint in his eyes that you do not like. His expression sobers quickly, and he dashes towards you. Even if you knew he was coming—and you did, for he was not at all hiding his _nen—_ you would not be able to parry. You could barely react the way you did: jump back, propel yourself off the walls to get higher. 

 

He follows you with ease, cackling all the way. You think you hear him whisper in the wind, “This chase isn’t as fun as Killua, but I did promise.”

 

Suspended in mid-air, you take a split-second to observe your surroundings. The city is still bustling, this late at night. Outside the city limits, there is not much human traffic, save for the highways. You need to get someplace where casual bystanders would not be dragged into his mania, but you cannot be isolated. 

 

It hurts to admit, but it would hurt more to die: you need help. Who to ask?

 

There’s no one to ask. Nobody would come. 

 

With that reassuring thought in mind, you run. 

 

( _When facing an enemy you cannot beat, you must run. Leave as soon as possible, isn’t that right, Illumi? Is that where you have gone?_

 

_Have you left me, Illumi? Have you, too, gone and died?)_

 

 

 

 

 

He kicks you to the ground. Your back skids against the hard dirt. You can feel the outer layer of your kimono being torn to shreds. You can feel his delight—his psychopathy—from the aura he relentlessly emits. 

 

Hisoka wastes no time in following up; it is not long before he’s looming over you, one hand on your throat. There is frenzied ecstasy written in his face, all from a chase he knows he will win. It’s not the same expression as the one where he fought Chrollo; that one is different. That one, he did not know whether he could win—this one he does. To him, you are still but a pawn in a greater game. 

 

You feel torn between hysteria and death. Scratch that; you’ll probably die all the same. You are torn between hysteria and incongruous sanity.

 

Fine, you’ll admit it—you’ve had enough, haven’t you? 

 

It doesn’t matter. He moves to straddle you, knees planted firmly in the dirt. You struggle, but he outweighs you. You can’t escape. 

 

 _Fuck,_ you think, incoherently. 

 

 

 

A bang sounds beside you. You jerk instinctively, as does Hisoka. With enough momentum, you push him off and scramble to your feet. You search for the source of the sound, and there it is: Illumi, in his 185cm glory. 

 

“Illumi,” Hisoka coos, masking his emotions perfectly. You can’t tell what he’s thinking—you never could, to be honest—and it sends shivers down your spine. 

 

“Hisoka,” Illumi parries, apathetic. Despite standing still, he makes it clear that he would have no trouble initiating a fight in mere milliseconds. The wind picks up, ruffling through all three of you. It would be comedic if it wasn’t your life on the line. “Let him go.” 

 

“Oh, dear,” Hisoka says. “I don’t think I can do that. I said I was going to kill the Phantom Troupe, and this is a promise I intend to keep.” 

 

“I will kill you first.” 

 

“Will you, Illumi? You could have already, yet I’m still standing here. Living. Why did you hesitate, Illumi? You could have killed me in my sleep, or during dinner, or—” 

 

“Hisoka,” Illumi snaps. His hair flares out, and it’s no longer the wind. It’s righteous fury in the form of involuntary _nen._ Hisoka only grins in response. It’s revolting and makes your blood curdle. It’s the manic smile where Hisoka does not know if he will win. 

 

“Ashamed, are you?” 

 

“Kalluto, go,” Illumi says, instead. His eyes don’t leave Hisoka’s. You do not obey. When he notices, he shouts louder, “I said, go!” 

 

“You don’t have to protect me,” you blurt. Foolish. Irresponsible. Hisoka’s grin only grows wider; it’s clear he’s enjoying your broken family. 

 

“You would have died if I hadn’t stepped in.” 

 

You don’t respond. He is right, as always. Hisoka draws himself to his full height. “That’s enough,” he says, amusement gone from his voice. Your palms are sweaty, you realize, so you re-adjust your grip on your fan. It’s your only weapon left, your last defense. 

 

Blink and miss it: your brother and his lover have begun to fight. Panicked, you raise your arm and try to assist, but it is useless. They are so much faster—stronger, experienced, skilled, _better_ —that your efforts go to waste. 

 

You try, anyway. 

 

After what seems like hours—but is more likely minutes—you see an opening. It’s the turning point for the fight, you know. Raise your hand and call for the power lurking beneath your skin, for your fan. You charge forward, paper slips whirring through the air. Your kimono dances alongside your feet. 

 

You are the epitome of elegance; it is how you were taught to fight. 

 

It is not effective. 

 

Hisoka rips into your midsection, nails outstretched. The smell of raw flesh fills the air. It’s something you’re familiar with. 

 

It’s your flesh. 

 

That’s less familiar. 

 

Adrenaline spurs you forward. You don’t feel the pain commonly associated with having your guts ripped out. 

 

(They are, in fact, still intact, but on the verge of falling out.)

 

One more step. One more cry. One more attack. One more sprite of energy. 

 

“Kalluto,” your brother snarls. 

 

Hisoka laughs, honest and free. You have a sneaking suspicion he has never cared for a thing in the world. “How’s that, Illumi?” He sounds crazy. Gleeful. 

 

The ground shakes with Illumi’s anger. Illumi—once, the robot—feels anger. It is a shock to you. Less so to Hisoka, you think. How much better does he know him, better than you know your brother? It’s like Hisoka knows all of Illumi’s buttons—what to press and what reactions they give. You don’t. 

 

How things have changed. Before, would this have happened? You don’t know. 

 

The adrenaline begins to fade. You are on the ground. You can’t remember when you collapsed. 

 

Collapsing is weakness. You push yourself to your knees, struggling to stand. 

 

You don’t make it in time. Illumi wins. 

 

You see Hisoka’s last movements: Illumi strikes hard, burying his knife-like fingers deep into Hisoka’s chest. He pulls out with a sickening gurgle and flicks the excess blood off his hand. Red splatters against the ground. There is still much left, covering his body, but he does not look disturbed. 

 

You were raised an assassin, too, but this sight makes you want to vomit. 

 

“Illu—” Hisoka croons, voice faint. Illumi turns away. If he is sad—mourning, regretful—you wouldn’t know it. 

 

“Are you just going to leave him there?” you blurt. 

 

Ilumi turns back to you. “That was a waste of _nen,_ ” he says, callous. “Do better next time.” 

 

Your mouth slams shut. Next time? 

 

For that matter, how _are_ you still alive? By all means, Hisoka is stronger than you. You should be the one bleeding out on the ground. 

 

You are bleeding out. You just aren’t on death’s door. Hisoka is, and by the traces of his _nen,_ he won’t be coming back. 

 

Another body to count. If you were even a little more put together, you would give yourself this moment to finally feel vindication at seeing your found-family’s murderer die, but you aren’t. So you don’t. Another memory to suppress. 

 

Illumi turns away. 

 

“Illumi—” There are hundreds of questions on your tongue, but none of them come out. Illumi does not stop to hear your inquiry. 

 

You do not follow him. 

 

 

 

 

 

Only moments later do you realize Hisoka made his mark. There is a deep gash in your upper arm that you did not notice. Your side is torn open, kimono stained red. Your knees ache. You cannot make it back home, not in this state.

 

Illumi is no longer there to protect you, so you try anyway. 

 

One foot in front of another, haggard and weary. You fight to traipse back to the centre of the city. Maybe there, you can hitch a ride back to the Zoldyck mountain, where you will lick your wounded pride. 

 

That is the idea, of course. You do not make it very far. Whether from exhaustion, shock, or anything else, your knees buckle under your weight. You topple to the ground. As soon as your head hits the ground, you pass out. 

 

 

 

 

 

A quiet, filtered conversation gently shakes you awake. You wait a second longer before opening your eyes, so that they can adjust to the bright blinding of the office lights. 

 

Office lights, huh? 

 

You open your eyes and take in your surroundings. A doctor sits to your right. He is tall. Brown-haired. Wears glasses. He seems familiar—the sideburns, maybe—but you can’t place it. 

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, brows furrowed. 

 

You ignore his question in favour of inspecting the room. It’s scarcely decorated—fire hazard, maybe?—with one other person in the room. The Hunter president is there. She is a doctor, too, you vaguely remember. 

 

“Who are you?” your voice croaks. It’s a meaningless question, one you aren’t sure why you’re asking. It reminds you that your throat is dry. You need water. You move to sit up, but a pulsing sensation splits open your skull, your side, your shoulder. You mumble, haphazardly, “Where am I? What do you want from me?” 

 

It takes a moment for your questions to sink in. Have you not been taught better than this? Stay silent in the face of the adversary! Don’t spill family secrets! Even after what Illumi has done for you, you still find ways to disappoint. 

 

What Illumi has done for— 

 

Illumi. 

 

He left. Again. 

 

Wide-eyed and hazy, you lurch to grab the lapels of the doctor’s coat. “My brother,” you gasp. “My brother, where is he, what happened to—” 

 

The doctor looks confused. “Killua is fine? I—I mean, he doesn’t—”

 

You shake your head vigorously. It hurts your head a little. “Killua—Killua—no, no, not him. Illumi. Where is he? Is he OK?” Your voice is hoarse and unused. 

 

Something in the doctor’s eyes hardens. He does not say anything. 

 

You turn to the Hunter president. Hysteria—panic, irritation, frustration—rises in your throat. You are two seconds from not-breathing. 

 

It’s fine. You’ve been here before. Focus. Deep breaths. 

 

Your family is OK. 

 

(Which family?) 

 

You focus on the doctor’s eyes. He looks kind. He looks like the type of person that is easily manipulable, idealistic, and easy to kill. Easy to _want_ to kill. 

 

He presses his lips together, forming a straight white line. He clenches his jaw. You follow his movements with studied practice. Wordlessly, he begins your checkup. About two movements in, he realizes he needs to communicate instructions. 

 

“Lift up your arms,” he says. You obey. There’s nothing better to do, anyway. You’re stuck in this room. Two expert Hunters surround you, and you’re injured. 

 

A knock at the door shakes you out of your reverie. By the looks of it, it startles the doctor’s concentration, too. The Hunter president does not seem as affected. 

 

“Come in,” she says. The doctor’s eyes flick to her, but he does not argue. 

 

The doorknob turns. Opens. In steps—

 

—the chain user. 

 

He recognizes you. You recognize him, too. 

 

You open your mouth. He opens his and reaches for his chains. You accept your fate; if he were to draw, you will die. That’s fine. 

 

The doctor says, “Kurapika! It’s been a while. How’ve you been?” 

 

Kurapika’s eyes leave yours. “I’m good,” he says. His voice is soft. Gentle. Not angry. “How—” 

 

The doctor laughs. It sounds awkward and fake. “I’m just patchin’ him up. If you wanna wait a few, I’ll be done in a sec.” 

 

“Leorio, what—” 

 

The Hunter president speaks: “Didn't you ask for him to live? Kurapika, you need to stop stretching yourself so thin. Take care of yourself, please.”

 

You eyes snap to the Hunter president. “What do you mean—” 

 

She smiles. Somewhere at the back of your mind, rising from musty, cobwebbed cardboard boxes, a flag rises. That’s an apology. That’s an apology! She looks apologetic! These are the sorts of things that happen in books, apologetic looks! It’s happening!

 

You lick your lips. “What do you mean,” you begin again, “what do you mean, ‘didn't you ask for him to live’?” 

 

Cheadle. Cheadle, that’s her name. Cheadle looks at Kurapika, who resolutely stares back. After a moment, Kurapika meets your eyes. He opens his mouth—to explain, probably, or to offer excuses, or to deny it all—but you beat him to it. It’s not a conscious choice. It just happens. 

 

“You knew. You knew. You have got to have known. There’s no way you didn't—you sold us out, didn't you? To Hisoka.” You lunge forward, heat thrumming in your veins. Anger. It’s got to be anger. Your abdomen clenches, straining. 

 

“Hey!” Leorio shouts, grabbing hold of your arm. Softer, he says, “Don’t move too much; you’ll injure yourself.” 

 

“I’m already injured,” you snort, for his words are not enough to satiate the anger. The denial. The fear, maybe, even though Zoldycks do not feel fear. Fear has been shocked out of you, swallowed with the poisoned vials at two years old. The absence of fear has been etched into your brain in the same breath as _obey your family._ You have not _obeyed your family._ Your family is dead. They are still dead, two years later. 

 

You have an inkling they’ll stay dead forever. 

 

“Why didn't you just team up with Hisoka, then? To do him in like you’ve sworn? He’s just as much a Spider as anyone else, didn't you know? Why did you swear to kill Illumi instead? He’s just as much a Spider as anyone else.” 

 

Then: “They didn't deserve to die. Not yet.” 

 

 

 

 

 

“How much do you hate the Phantom Troupe?” you ask. 

 

The five stages of grief are as follows: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. You’re somewhere along the bargaining axis. What are you grieving? Illumi might still be alive; you didn't see him die. Kurapika cannot know you are a Spider.  

 

“Enough.” 

 

Leorio looks as though he should interrupt, but he doesn’t. Neither does Cheadle. Kurapika and Leorio share a glance, as if they’ve had a similar conversation before. It’s not enough to mask Kurapika’s anger—the tenseness in his shoulders, his clenched jaws, and the semi-permanent frown drawn into his brows are all telltale signs. 

 

“How far would you go? To have them all die?” Hisoka has killed more of your found-family than Kurapika has, but it’s not like you can interrogate Hisoka. He’s dead. 

 

They’re all dead. It’s just you and your anger. 

 

 

 

“Why do you care?” 

 

You cannot answer that. You tell him so. 

 

Kurapika tilts his head. With unshaken calm you would not be able to replicate, he says, “Then why should I answer?” 

 

“What did they do to you?” 

 

A moment. Then, Leorio says, “You can tell him. He’s—” 

 

“I know who he is,” snaps Kurapika. “The Phantom Troupe killed my family. They slaughtered my people—be it the elderly or the children. I am the only Kurta left. They killed the women and the children before the men’s eyes, for nothing but sick, vile pleasure and the perverse desire to see a brighter red. They dug out my people’s eyes to put on a pedestal and left the bodies to rot. I was _thirteen._ ” 

 

“You want revenge.” It’s not a question, not after that. You don’t tell him he can’t. You don’t tell him that Hisoka beat him to it. You don’t tell him that there’s only two left—you, who is barely a year older than then-Kurapika—and Chrollo, the only one he wouldn’t be able to kill. 

 

“Wouldn’t you?” He laughs, unhinged and self-deprecating. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see Leorio and Cheadle exchanging concerned looks. 

 

You run the question through your mind, testing each word. _Wouldn’t you?_

 

You wouldn’t, actually. Now that it’s come to your mind, you have no idea who killed your family. Your family is dead. You don’t know who did it. You can’t exact revenge.

 

Would Illumi have? No. Would Milluki have? No. Would Killua have? No. Would Alluka have? No. Therefore, you do not need to. 

 

A sudden realization: for all that your family emphasizes loyalty, the business is largely self-centered. You have grown up giving everything to the Zoldyck name, never taking anything for yourself. You need to take for yourself. 

 

You’re just—you’re just really tired. Tired of it all. 

 

You clear your throat. “No, I wouldn’t.” 

 

Kurapika’s _nen_ bursts. His _nen_ is suffocating. Harsh. Angry. You don’t flinch. Cheadle does not, either. Leorio does.

 

You meet his eyes. They are a cold sort of blood-red, before slowly fading into a duller grey. “I see.” 

 

 

 

Cheadle excuses herself moments later. She mutters out an excuse you don’t think to listen to. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. You’re not a Hunter. 

 

“Kalluto,” Leorio says, thirty-two seconds after you closed the door. “It’s Kalluto, right? You’re—you’re Killua’s brother?” He says the words hesitantly, as if he’s afraid of being wrong. 

 

Your mouth twists. “Yes.”

 

“Do you know where he is?” 

 

You meet his eyes. “Do you?” 

 

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Do you want to know? Do you—do you want to see him?” 

 

A wry smile tugs at your lips. It’s laughable; even if you did want to see him, he wouldn’t see you. It’s as clear as day. What is the point of rubbing salt in the wound?

 

“Leorio,” says Kurapika. A warning. Then, to you, he asks: “Why do you care? Why do you care if they are alive or not? What’s it to you? Don’t tell me you sympathize with them? Don’t tell me you’re one of them?” 

 

“Would you kill me if I was?” You are oddly curious, to be honest. Would he? How would he do it—tear you apart, rip you to shreds? Force you to oblivion, exert unquestionable force and demand submission, like he did Uvogin? Or would he do it quick: a ruse, a cry for help hidden behind sleek blades, like Hisoka? Would he draw it out, enjoying the luxury of vengeance on an enemy, like the Troupe? Would he be silent, decisive, and unnoticed, like Killua, the perfect assassin? Killua’s way is a coward’s way out, that much is certain. “I’m just being selfish. Sometimes, you have to protect the people who have protected you. That is all.” 

 

Kurapika’s fist tightens at his side. Leorio lays a hand on his arm. “Hey, take it easy,” he says, voice low. He’s not happy with you either—you’re not an idiot—but at least he’s not threatening murder. He must be under the impression that Killua still loves you—that he still loves the Zoldyck family. What a joke. 

 

But you have not forgotten you are still at the enemy’s mercy. You must stay quiet and bide your time; it is how you were taught. 

 

“Kalluto,” he says, “we could take you to Killua. If you wanted.” 

 

An unwilling grin splits across your face. You can feel the blood smeared across your body, as clear as day. _Tick tock,_ the clock echoes in the back of your mind. Your heartbeat suspended midair, you are sure there is only so long before the offer will rescind. Make a decision, and make it quick. Don’t play with your food. Don’t play with your prey. 

 

 _Survive, Kalluto._  

 

“I would,” you say, as offhandedly as possible. It probably doesn’t work—your desperation is painted across your nails, your eyes, your teeth. Leorio does not smile. Neither does Kurapika. “Shall we tell Cheadle, then?” 

 

 

 

 

 

They book you a flight to Whale Island. You’ve never been there. They don’t expect you to. 

 

“If anything,” Leorio laughs, “it’s probably better that you haven’t.” 

 

Kurapika still says nothing. You don’t think he’s said a single word to you since the doctor’s office.

 

Your side is bandaged. You’re not up to full strength—far from it, really—but you’re capable. Worth something in a fight. Zoldycks aren’t dead weight. 

 

The boat ride isn’t too long. The consistent swaying is uncomfortable at first, but you grow used to it. The boat docks. It unloads. You get off second; Leorio leads the way, and Kurapika follows behind you. Have they been to Whale Island before? You aren’t sure. You are sure, though, that Killua loves them more. Probably. 

 

The ground is soft when you land. At first, it’s sand, soft under your sandals and eager to hide between your toes. Socks don’t do much. The beach doesn’t stretch too long, fortunately. Soon comes the grass: bright, fresh, and gentle. Trees of all types reach up tall, just short of touching the clouds. 

 

“C’mon,” Leorio says, once you’ve had your fill of the scenery. His voice is hushed—kind, unassuming—when he speaks, as if trying not to startle you. What does he know? 

 

“Yes. Lead the way.” 

 

Kurapika moves first. You aren’t sure why he is so averse to this meeting, or to you, but you don’t push it. You get to see Killua again. You get to see the Zoldyck heir again. You get to see your big brother again. 

 

So he leads a few paces ahead. Leorio follows you, two steps to the side and none behind. 

 

Finally, you ask, “Why—does he know—” 

 

“They,” Kurapika says quietly, from the front. It’s not spoken to you, not really, but clearly meant for you to hear. It takes the word a moment to sink in. It takes the word—the correction, the implications—a moment to settle in and make themselves known. 

 

Your gut clenches, a brief moment before it’s over. It’s not that shocking. Is it? It makes sense, doesn’t it?

 

“You can do that?” you ask. 

 

He—they?—do not look back at you. “Yes,” they say instead. They don’t follow up with anything else. You suppose it’s a touchy topic. It makes sense, doesn’t it? For you. 

 

You lick your lips. “OK,” you say. “OK. Can I do that?” 

 

They shrug. Leorio shrugs, too, when you turn to look at him. “If you wanna,” Leorio says, something odd in his voice, “then yeah.”

 

You nod, satisfied to some extent. Then, you consider your previous question _does Kurapika know I’m a Spider?_ before dropping it. You’re not sure you want to know the answer to that, anyway. 

 

You are not ashamed of being a Spider. You’re not. The Phantom Troupe gave you a family—a real one, let’s be honest, you have come this far these past two years—and knowledge. A figurative home. If Kurapika knew, would they kill you? Or was that all a farce, a pointless plot of revenge, sins not your own yet still forgiven? Do they still want Chrollo dead? These thoughts whirl around your head fast enough to discourage you from asking, so you don’t. 

 

The silence drags on for a few more minutes until Kurapika stops at the base of a large tree overlooking the water. “We’re here.” 

 

You look around but don’t see anything. You don’t point it out; Killua has a way of hiding. You doubt you could reach him with _En_ if you tried. 

 

Leorio laughs to himself and calls up the base of the tree: “Gon! We’ve arrived!” 

 

A boy Killua’s age effortlessly drops down on the ground. You expect Killua to appear immediately after, but he does not. You say so, pitching it quietly in case Killua is, in fact, nearby. 

 

Gon—dressed in greens like the man from your dreams—laughs. He laughs, loud and bright, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. It pisses you off, a little. 

 

“Hey, you’re Killua’s lil’ brother, right?” There is an emotion in his eyes that you can’t quite place. 

 

You pause and think back to the ‘they’ conversation minutes before, but you only understand that you don’t quite like that title. Nonetheless, you don’t have a better answer (‘sister’ isn’t any better), so you answer, “Yeah.”

 

“Cool!” he says, and then, “How’s the rest of your family?” 

 

You send him an odd look. 

 

Hastily, he adds, “I mean, your siblings, right? There were—there were more of you?” 

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Yes. There were five of us.” 

 

“And now?” 

 

“There are five of us,” you correct, though the number tastes like ash on your tongue. Everything smells startlingly like manure. Gross. 

 

“Oh.” He sounds almost disappointed. Are Killua and Gon not friends? Did he not rescue Killua multiple times, had they not gallivanted off by themselves for years, ignoring the Zoldyck legacy? Is that not what your family told you? Why would he _want_ Killua’s family dead? 

 

“What?” you snap, harsher than intended. Well, not really. You’ve always been that harsh. You’re just getting used to expressing it. It’s not like you didn't express it before, but you always felt guilty. You don’t feel as guilty right now.

 

Gon laughs and waves his hands. “No, no, it’s nothing. So! You wanna see Killua, right?” 

 

You nod. You’re still not sure if this is an elaborate prank. The only thing disproving that theory is the fact that these people—these friends of Killua—likely do not care about you. Apathy, you can do. 

 

“Cool!” Bright as ever, Gon grins; blinding like the sun, he does not seem to worry about _you_ _and Killua_. “He’s up there.” 

 

You hesitate a moment longer before asking, “Is Alluka there?” 

 

Gon’s mouth twists. “Yeah,” he says. “She is, but like, not in the tree. Think she said she was gonna explore a bit, meet some of the other kids ‘round here. You wanna talk to her?” 

 

When you don’t respond, Gon continues, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Killua probably wouldn’t like that very much.” 

 

You resist the urge to snort. Killua probably would not like seeing you, regardless of whether or not you talk to Alluka. Still, you mutter a quiet “thanks” before going. 

 

It’s a quick climb. Soon enough, you find yourself watching Killua playing video games upside-down, legs hooked over a stray branch. Your breath catches in your throat. 

 

The small movement is enough to catch his attention. Killua hoists himself into a proper sitting position. “Kalluto,” he says. That’s all the greeting you’ll get, you suppose. 

 

“Killua.” Despite your best intentions, you sound meek. Even now, you do not hold a candle to Killua. It is in part infuriating and in part humiliating. 

 

“Have you come to chase me back home?” He sounds tired. 

 

You are tired, too. “No.” You could elaborate. You don’t. 

 

“Why are you here, then?” 

 

You lick your lips and think over the question. Why are you here? Finally, you settle on, “Did you write the letter?” 

 

He looks confused. “What letter?” 

 

“The only—” You cut your words off with a huff. “The one telling me my family is dead. Was that not you?” 

 

He shrugs. “No, not really.” In your silence, he continues, “Who’s dead?” 

 

You tilt your head. “You don’t know?” 

 

He shrugs. “I know, but I want you to say it.” Then, to himself, he mutters, “Who knows what hallucinations Illumi has planted.” 

 

“Our parents. Our grandparents. Our butlers. Everyone except me and Illumi, and Milluki, and you and Alluka.” Brazenly, you add, “But I don’t know if Illumi’s still alive.” 

 

“Is that so?” Killua doesn’t sound concerned. 

 

You grind your teeth. “Do you not care? At all?” You are all still family, no? Do you not all still hold the Zoldyck family name? How much of your real-family is left?

 

Killua laughs. “Get over Illumi already,” he says, in a tone that sounds like bitterness. “When will you realize that he played you all like his own minions? Controlling his siblings like his needlemen.”

 

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Your tongue fumbles to form shapes. “That’s—that’s not—” 

 

“Forget it.” 

 

“No—no, wait—you said he planted hallucinations? That—that purple _nen_? That was his?” 

 

Killua watches you carefully, studying the expression on your face. It’s like you’re a cornered animal; you don’t know what you’re showing. “Yeah.” 

 

You choke on your breath. Wheeze. Compose yourself, Kalluto. “Illumi’s gone. Right? Right.” 

 

Killua continues, unabashedly, “So. Where were you? These past few years?” 

 

And then the other shoe drops: he doesn’t know. 

 

 

 

Why would he?

 

 

 

“Where is Alluka?” you ask instead. 

 

He studies your face for another second, before standing up. His feet balance precariously on the branch, but he does not look concerned. “She’s out.” 

 

There is no room for discussion in his tone. You don’t push it. You’re sure he could kill you right now, if he wanted. 

 

The thought stings a little. You learned _nen_ before him. Shouldn’t you be better than him? 

 

It’s because he’s the heir, that’s why. It must be. 

 

“Alright,” he says, once it’s clear you are not going to respond. “Well, I’m done here.” 

 

He promptly jumps off the branch, landing on his feet down below. You assume he softened the blow with _nen._  

 

You follow his lead. He does not look surprised. 

 

 

 

 

 

Alluka shows up, eventually. It’s OK. She doesn’t talk about the talk you two had, so neither do you. It’s OK. Really. 

 

Killua says, “Gon, Leorio, Kurapika? Alluka? Can you leave us alone for a moment?” 

 

Maybe he saw the glances you shared. Maybe he knows—maybe Alluka told him. Maybe he’s just that perceptive. Maybe he’s better than you. That’s not a maybe. 

 

They leave. You aren’t sure why they do—you certainly wouldn’t, not with the tone of voice he used. But they do. Maybe that’s why he likes them and not you. 

 

“If you hurt Alluka,” he says, voice low, once they’re out of earshot. He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to, not really. 

 

You tilt your head, acting calmer than you feel. Your heart thuds in your chest, threatening to burst. “What if you hurt her?” 

 

“I won’t.” 

 

“Then why would I?” 

 

He laughs. “You don’t care about her.” 

 

“Family above all,” you repeat. “Isn’t that right, heir?” 

 

You shake your head. He watches. 

 

“It’s OK,” you say. “I got what I expected, anyway. See you around, big bro.” 

 

 

 

You announce your depart to the rest of the group immediately after. 

 

“So soon?” Leorio asks, brows furrowed. He doesn’t understand the Zoldyck family dynamics, that’s for sure. 

 

Alluka looks like she wants to say something. You look over at Killua, who resolutely says nothing. 

 

Finally, Gon speaks: “Stay for dinner! The next boat won’t arrive until after.” 

 

It is silent. 

 

“OK,” you say, surprising yourself. “Until dinner.” 

 

 

 

At first, dinner is a quiet affair, admittedly a little tense. You must look very rude, avoiding conversation with your brother despite having come to visit him. 

 

Alluka tries to start a conversation. Her words are quiet and hesitant. Stilted. 

 

Killua interrupts her attempt. “Kalluto,” he says. It’s not gentle nor condescending. His best attempt at neutral, you think. “We’re not going back to the family.” He doesn’t look at Alluka when he says this. 

 

“I know.” You do. 

 

“You know,” he continues, “maybe I’m a little glad everyone’s dead. If only Milluki and Illumi were too.” 

 

He doesn’t say your name. If he wanted you dead, you would be, wouldn’t you? Despite his claims of ‘leaving murder behind’, it won’t stay gone for long. You know the truth. You’ve tried. There will always be something to tempt him astray, and no love will be good enough. He is a Zoldyck, through and through. 

 

Finally, you say, “They’re our family. They’re not that bad.” 

 

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t believe you. It’s not surprising. Still, Milluki isn’t around to protect himself. Nobody except you, it seems, still cares about Illumi. 

 

It’s your duty to protect your family now, as they protected you during your childhood. How the tables have turned. 

 

“Milluki is good,” you say. “He put the family back together, after the—after their deaths. Without him, everybody would be dead and homeless. He saved Canary and Amane, too. And me.” 

 

Killua does not look impressed. He looks tired, really. 

 

If you were smarter, perhaps, you would stop pushing. You don’t. “We’re family, Killua. We’re Zoldycks. We love each other, and nothing will change that. Sure, it’s unconventional, but everything is for the family. For each other. You—you don’t have to come back, but please, at least talk to us. Let us—let us see Alluka sometimes, I don’t know.” 

 

You sound pathetic, grasping at straws. Even after all these years, nothing has changed; you have always been scrambling for scraps of your brother’s attention. 

 

He barks out a laugh, and it hurts a little. Something green shifts in your peripheral vision; you are not alone. You had forgotten that. Gon is looking uncomfortable, as are Leorio and Kurapika. No matter; they are not family like you and Killua. You love each other. You are family. Killua is real-family.

 

“That’s not how it works,” he says. “That’s not—no. No, Kalluto. You’re—you don’t—no.” 

 

“No?” 

 

“No,” he repeats. “We don’t love each other, Kalluto. We might share the same blood, but we are not family. We do not love each other. I love Alluka, and Gon, and Leorio, and Kurapika. Illumi was a twisted bastard who manipulated me into doing his bidding and wanted to use Alluka for his perverse intentions. He didn't care for anyone other than himself, Kalluto. And Milluki is just a spineless coward who—” 

 

“Stop.” It comes from both you and Alluka. You continue, alone: “You haven’t been in the mountain in years. Stop pretending like you know anything. Milluki and I are doing everything we can to put the family back together—” 

 

“—You think the family _wants_ to be put back together?” 

 

“—and restore some order,” you continue, ignoring his interruption, “but still, you are the heir. That is an undeniable fact, and Father isn’t around to let you follow your whims praying you’ll come back. I came back for you, Killua. I came back for you and Alluka, and Alluka, she—” 

 

“Give it up,” he snarls, standing up. His eyes are narrowed, and his fingers twitch at his sides. Your heart thumps and your hands tremble; your death is one step closer with an enraged big brother. “You don’t know the first thing about what Father did—! Alluka and I—” 

 

“Let me talk for myself!” she butts in. 

 

You wait. Killua mutters a soft “sorry” and waits, too. 

 

Her lips are pressed shut, face red. “Let me talk for myself, too. I’m a part of this family, too, aren’t I? What if I want to talk to Kalluto and Milluki?” 

 

Killua snorts. “You don’t want to. They wanted to kill you and lock you up forever.” 

 

“That was Illumi.” 

 

Killua turns to you. You stare back, blinking impassively. “And you wanted to bring us all back. You knew we wouldn’t ever. You knew what they did to us.”

 

“And you knew what Mother and Father would do to us, too,” you say quietly. “But it’s OK; we are all Zoldycks. We are family.” You sigh and take one last glance around the table consisting of Killua’s friends. “Thank you for the ride. I’ll be going now.” 

 

Killua calls as you leave: “Our family is nothing worth staying around, Kalluto.” 

 

 

 

 

 

You return home. 

 

The house is cold and empty. The stairs spiral upwards, off into the distance. You know where it goes, obviously, but the effect is there. 

 

“I’m home,” you call. Your voice echoes around you, whispering praises and _welcome-home_ s. No butler nor brother nor adult-figure come to greet you. 

 

It doesn’t feel like home, not really. 

 

That’s OK, though. 

 

You go to Milluki’s room, knocking once, twice. He opens it with heavy bags under his eyes. His room is a mess. 

 

“Hello,” you say, at a loss for words.  

 

“Hey,” he says, two hands on two keyboards, a variety of screens around him. It looks as though he has not taken a break in days. Stress must have gotten to him, you think. “What do you want?” 

 

You shrug. “I’m home.” 

 

“Yeah.” He says it like he would say _obviously_ or _I can tell._  

 

“OK,” you say, turning to leave. He doesn’t stop you. “Thought you should know.” 

 

 

 

It’s quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

A few months later, you get a letter in the mail.

 

 _Kalluto_ _Zoldyck_ , it reads in grandiose cursive handwriting. Some of the lines are a little bit wobbly; the words look hesitant.

 

There are many paragraphs in the letter, which you skim through. It is very long and a little bit confusing. You aren’t sure what the point of the letter is, nor who sent it. 

 

And then, there it is: 

 

 _Sorry,_ it reads in the fifth-last paragraph, _thought I should tell you your brother is dead._  

 

Your heart stops. 

 

Which brother? 

 

Keep reading. It will be OK. 

 

It continues, the third-last paragraph: 

 

_Chrollo Lucifer—the late leader of the Phantom Troupe—killed him. In case you were wondering, I killed Chrollo._

 

 _You need not concern yourself with revenge._  

 

You laugh. It was never a consideration. 

 

 

 

Swallow. 

 

You have known death your entire life; this is no different. 

 

Paper crumpled in your hand like your heart so desired, you make your way to Milluki’s room. You knock once, twice. He does not open it. You do, then, announcing your entry with a clear, “Hello?” 

 

He has his headphones in. He is asleep. You hesitate in the doorway, unsure of what to do. 

 

He is not dead. That is your eldest brother, the first of your real-siblings. That is your leader, the last of your found-family.

 

While Milluki would not care about the Troupe, he deserves to know about Illumi. 

 

Or, more likely, you have come to accept that you cannot do this alone. 

 

You tap him lightly on his shoulder, and when that does not wake him up, you shake him with force. It is not enough to hurt him.

 

He wakes and mumbles, “Wha—?” 

 

You pull out a chair from across the room, dust it off, and sit down. Your hands sit clasped in your lap, forcibly still. There is no nice way to phrase it, so you don’t try. “Illumi is dead.” 

 

“OK,” he says. He blinks, runs the words through his mind and says again, “OK.” 

 

You continue, “I met with Killua, the other day.” 

 

He shrugs. “OK.” 

 

“He’s not coming back.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

“OK.” 

 

“OK.” 

 

“He’s our family,” you plead. “Do you—do you not care if he’s still alive? If he’s doing well? He’s the _heir,_ for—”

 

He shrugs again, tilting his head. “Dad’s dead. Who cares?”

 

“He was hurt, too! Dad hurt him, too!” 

 

“Dad hurt all of us,” Milluki says, a little quiet and a lot nonchalant, which you don’t believe. 

 

“OK.” You pause and say, “I’m going to try to talk to him again. His friends. He has a doctor friend. I’m going to try to talk to him.” 

 

“OK.” 

 

You snap. “Will you not say anything other than ‘OK’? What is not ‘OK’ to you?” 

 

 

 

You talk to Leorio and it goes like this: 

 

“You’re so young,” he says. 

 

“Yeah,” you say. “It happens,” and then, “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” 

 

Something akin to guilt settles in your chest. You don’t talk to him after that. 

 

 

 

There is no one to talk about Chrollo to—or the other Spiders, for that matter—so you don’t. As far as anyone is concerned, you were never a Spider, and you never found family. 

 

It is the last of the Phantom Troupe.

 

 

 

What is left of the Zoldyck family is an empty mansion, centuries of oppressive intimidation, four living children, and two loyal butlers. Milluki hasn’t bothered to hire any new ones, so neither have you. 

 

It is a grand step-up from what was before: your mother came from Meteor City, for one, and the Zoldyck family was not always this affluent. Assimilation is in your blood, as is quick-thinking and pride. 

 

Is it time to adapt, to evolve? 

 

Milluki stays locked up in his room. Whether he mourns Illumi or not, you don’t know. 

 

You will not become him, though. There are things to do. Places to see. 

 

 

 

Alluka shows up after a late-night kill. Your hands are dirty. Hers are not. The moon sings above you. She might just be a hallucination, a dream. Maybe you are dreaming; maybe your families are still alive and together. 

 

“I just want to talk,” she says. 

 

“Me too,” you agree, surprising yourself. There is no hesitance to be heard. “But I don’t think I’m very good at talking just yet.” 

 

She says, “That’s OK, me neither.” 

 

 

 

It’s OK because you and Millluki finally talk. You drag him out of bed, out of his self-pity and hopelessness. You try to, anyway. 

 

You talk about the world and everything in between; you talk about the secrets of the Zoldyck family and the Dark Continent, and most of all, your parents. It’s not perfect; there will still be more—there is always more—but it’s OK, right now. That’s all that matters. He is a good listener, and you are a good speaker. 

 

You ask, “There is a decision to make: rebuild the Zoldyck family or not?” because he is now the eldest brother, and he knows more.

 

“Leave it to burn,” Milluki says, and then, “We’re fine the way we are now. We’re free, aren’t we?” 

 

You make the decision. He’s not entirely correct—you can’t completely wipe your hands clean of the Zoldyck family, not in this world. You still need to live. As much as you can, though, you want to live free. You think Milluki does, too. 

 

You make the decision to do something only you can do: preserve what’s left of your innocence and the memories of your family, whether real or found. You swear their sacrifices will not be in vain, but you will not continue down the same path, either. 

 

In the end, your found-family and real-family were too similar. 

 

It is time to start anew.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> 07/11/19: I screwed up, accidentally deleted stuff and now it's all messed up. a fix will be coming shortly  
> second 07/11/19: should be fixed.  
> 07/22/19: changed order of beginning/ending notes. corrected capitalization on summary.


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